


Would You...?

by CC99trialanderrorgirl



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Comedy, Crack Treated Seriously, Drinking, Drunk!Sam Axe, Funny, Gen, Knowing!Fiona, Michael Westen definitely thinks the word "tactically" about a thousand times a day, Michael Westen has an ongoing love affair with yogurt, Michael Westen monologue TM, Yogurt cookies, mentions of blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CC99trialanderrorgirl/pseuds/CC99trialanderrorgirl
Summary: Would you suck a dick for a million dollars? No, but Michael Westen would *absolutely* suck a dick to get his burn notice revoked...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Would You...?

There’s a game I’m told kids these days play in the lunchroom, on the soccer field after school, during the ride home on the bus. It’s called – and I’m quoting here – “suck a dick.” It was explained to me in lurid, distressing detail recently. Want the short version? Of course you do. Basically, it’s a dick-centric version of the ever-popular verbal battleground known as a game called “would you rather.” What passes for entertainment in middle schools these days is truly concerning, honestly. The CIA is going to have some real problems recruiting come 2023 or so. What happened to just hot wiring a car and joy-riding around the city for an hour or ten on a Saturday while your dad is off on a bender? Don’t kids these days do things like that any more? No? Maybe it was just me and Nate. Anyway.

If you’re an enterprising, moderately intelligent kind of person, you might be wondering who exactly told me about this so-called children’s game. That would be one Sam Axe, former Navy Seal, currently serving as my part-time tactical support and a Ms. Veronica’s part-time sugar baby and full-time mojito connoisseur. And honestly, who else would it really be? Fiona’s conversational tastes run less toward actual conversation and more toward danger and mayhem, and Nate, well, Nate is just barely holding himself together at any given moment and spends far too much time at the local jai alai to pick up on what’s popular among today’s youth, his own immaturity notwithstanding.

But Sam, Sam is in exactly the right position to know this sort of thing. Washed up but never fully wasted, he’s perpetually buzzed and constantly in the company of women of a certain age who are likely to have small grandkids hanging around the periphery. Not to mention a certain bent towards the sort of inane humor and immature jokes usually trotted out and praised at the slam-drunk nouveau riche parties at which Sam frequently meets his once and future girlfriends.

And apparently, Sam has decided to tell _me_ about his latest little piece of intel a mere two days after one of these parties, while we are winding down in the loft after a job. His tone makes it clear he’s only waited the requisite two days between learning this and informing me of it out of respect for the client, who is a widow just a little out of Sam’s reach – meaning she’s well into her 80’s – and a genuinely lovely little woman. Even I can admit it, as I am currently eating one of the yogurt-dipped ginger cookies she’d baked to thank us. It’s already my second of the night, but the look in Sam’s eyes has me worried it’s going to be my last.

“So Mikey,” Sam drawls as he turns to me. I can already tell from the gleam in his eyes and the fact that he is in my favorite chair that this is going to be a _long_ evening. “There’s this new game the kids these days are playing. They’re calling it – get this! - suck a dick.” He laughs, loud and boisterous the way that only Sam Axe six beers in can, and out on the balcony, Fiona snorts and pointedly turns her back to us. In fairness, the Miami sunset is a much prettier sight than Sam Axe rapidly approaching three sheets to the wind.

“Isn’t that crazy?” Sam is near to giggling at this point, and if I had high blood pressure, I would be reaching for a bottle of pills right now. Thankfully, I don’t have high blood pressure. Too many people these days have high blood pressure. You take care of yourself, you eat right, you exercise a little, nine times out of ten you can cut that number right down. Not enough people bother to eat right and exercise these days. But spies are trained to keep themselves in peak condition, because you never know when things are going to heat up. So instead of worrying about my blood pressure rising in conjunction with Sam’s volume, I just calmly take another bite of my cookie and give him a little, “Oh?” in the hopes that it will be noncommittal enough that Sam will lose interest and drop it.

As I crunch on my bite of yogurt cookie, however, it becomes apparent from Sam’s continued conviviality that he will not be dropping it. I take a deep breath through my nose. When you’re annoyed, it’s common to experience pain in the temples and just between your eyebrows. This is because annoyance or anger activates the sympathetic nervous system, dumping cortisol into your system and causing your muscles to tense up – including the ones in your head and neck. And right now, I find myself experiencing a strong sense of annoyance towards one Sam Axe, my most effective backup to date and – I say this reluctantly, but spies aren’t in the business of lying to _themselves_ \- also probably my best friend, because I could clearly tell he was about to absolutely _ruin_ these cookies for me.

Which is a shame, because they're great cookies. Mrs. Grady had clearly worked hard on them, though the effort was clearly not in vain, as was a common experience had by my mother. Over the last eight days I learned that there are many differences between Madi Westen and Lynn Grady. The most significant differentiator being, at this moment, that one woman’s cookies are good – filled with yogurt – and one woman’s cookies are not good, and filled with cigarette ash and eggshells. I shoot Sam a warning look that says, “I hope you are not about to ruin these yogurt-dipped cookies for me, because such an action will test our friendship and possibly end in gunfire,” but which he clearly misinterprets to mean, “by all means, yes, go on, I am interested and invested in this line of conversation and not at all uncomfortable.”

Point of fact: I am almost never interested in or comfortable with anything Sam Axe has to say regarding the topics of: women, jewelry, or jokes – but he does have some decent opinions on mojitos. It would be unfair of me not to mention that.

Because Sam is one of two friends/tactical support options I currently possess, I sigh and make a “go on” gesture with the hand currently holding the cookie. I can’t decide if I should eat it all now in the hopes of still finding some enjoyment in it, however rushed it may be, or wait for Sam to finish and hope I still have an appetite. I decide to roll the dice.

It’s immediately apparent that I’ve made the wrong decision. It’s a poor tactical call, and my certainty of this fact increases exponentially the moment Sam starts to speak – very boisterously.

“Okay, so Mikey, it’s like this – I mean. It’s hilarious, is what it is!”

There are a lot of stops and starts to drunk Sam’s speech patterns. There’s also a lot of hand-waving and laughter. It’s very annoying - extremely tactically inefficient. I stare longingly at the half cookie in my hand, and the plateful still set out on the workbench. Fiona ate one. Sam doesn’t really eat so much as drink his meals. So I was hoping to have them all for me, to enjoy them slowly while passing the time winding down with my team-cum-friends.

Spies frequently do not get what they want.

I seem to get what _I_ want even less often than the average spy.

“Anyway,” Sam is saying, “Mikey, we should play!”

“I’d rather not,” I say. I think it even comes out in a fairly relaxed tone. I’m magnanimous like that.

“Oh come on, Mikey, live a little!” With every sip of alcohol, Sam’s volume tends to increase by a factor of about four. So by now, with the countless sips he’s had and is continuing to have and – shudder – will _continue_ to have, it’s at a pretty significant decibel. What this means is: Fiona hears.

Great.

She comes back in, all bustling and distractingly pretty in her white dress and stacked heels. If I lean back on the workbench a little harder than strictly necessary as she breezes by and the scent of her perfume hits me, well, there’s no one else here who is sober enough to notice my weak knees.

“A game?” Fiona is saying. “With Michael?”

Disbelief drips from her voice. A gauntlet has been thrown. I know what I should do. I should turn around, grab the plate of cookies, and retreat to the balcony to enjoy them by myself in the fading Miami sunlight. But even the toughest spy is easy to manipulate if you know the right triggers. Fiona counts for about fifty triggers of mine.

“Fine,” I hear myself saying before I’ve really even decided. “I’ll play.”

“Well alright, Mikey!” Same is clearly approving. His approval just sloshed all over my favorite chair. He’s definitely cleaning that tomorrow morning.

I smile what I hope is a winning grin but is probably closer to a pained grimace.

“Would you suck a dick for a million dollars?”

While the funds would be useful, they are not without limits, and the government would probably find a way to seize and freeze them anyway. I have my own revenue streams. Obvious no.

I say so.

Sam looks a little disappointed.

Fiona takes a few turns, says yes to everything Sam suggests, and then flops back on the bed dramatically when she gets bored. Sam looks confused and a little intimidated, which is his usual reaction to Fiona, but he rallies quickly. Too quickly. I get in just one blissful bite of yogurt cookie before Sam turns his manic attention back to me. It’s not the most pleasant sensation in the world, and I’ve been tortured by Afghani warlords – twice.

“Mikey! Would you suck a dick for the keys to a brand new, limited edition Murceilago?”

Too flashy. I could always sell it under the table and pocket the cash, but it’s not really worth the effort. Obviously another no.

There are six more questions, all of which I answer no to and try to focus on the promise of eating my cookies in peace as soon as Sam passes out and Fiona leaves, when Sam snaps his fingers and bursts out, “Would you suck a dick for a lifetime supply of yogurt?”

I have to think about that one longer, but the answer is still definitely no. Am I getting the yogurt all at once? Is it a rewards card kind of thing? There’s just no real way to know how the logistics would play out. Plus, I could always get shot tomorrow. If I’m not around to access the yogurt, or if the logistics of access to the yogurt can’t be easily planned and implemented, then it’s not a tactically sound decision. I answer “no” out loud.

Then Fiona flips over on the bed. The flopping sound catches Sam’s attention, and he pauses. In the silence, Fiona speaks, and her gaze is just a little too knowing when she says flatly, “Michael, would you suck someone’s dick to get your burn notice repealed?”

I say no immediately, then hear myself start to launch into a complicated rendition of why that would be morally, tactically, and legally wrong. My reasoning is sound. But Fiona doesn’t look like she quite buys it, although Sam does. In fact, Sam stretches wide, rubs his belly once, and then loudly exclaims, “Well, can’t top that!” One more beer, and he’s gone. Just as the door is about to bang shut behind him, Fiona’s small hand stops it. She holds eye contact with me for a moment and then follows Sam out – which sort of sucks because based on her weird look from earlier, I’d been somewhat hoping for some violent, athletic sex. Yogurt cookies are a good consolation prize, though.

As I crunch through the plate – seated on a hard stool instead of my favorite chair because Sam is a sloppy drunk - I find myself thankful for my training for about the millionth time. When you’re a spy, your skills with a gun matter. Your linguistic skills matter. But the skills that matter most are still the most basic. Spies are trained to be good liars. And I am excellent at it.

It’s a useful skill to have in your arsenal outside the field, too. Because honestly? _I would._ In a heartbeat. I would enjoy it, even. It’s a stupid game that Sam brought up while drunk, but the opportunity to get back in has never, is not, and will never be a joke to me. For the opportunity to get back in? Yes, absolutely, I would suck a dick.

And I’d prefer that my friends never find out just how enthusiastic that blowjob would be.

Spies are trained to live with uncomfortable truths, but no matter who you are or what you’re trained for, facing an uncomfortable truth about yourself is never pleasant. Sometimes, the ability to tune out everything around you and just focus on the situation at hand is the difference between life and death. Sometimes, it’s just the difference between an uncomfortable look in the mirror and a pleasant night eating some cookies. So instead of looking inward and worrying about my sexual preferences or wondering whether the ends really justify the means in every situation, I just look down at my workbench instead. I still have over half the plate of cookies left. I resolve then and there that I will blame any and all of tonight’s dreams on Mrs. Grady’s delicious yogurt cookies, and take a bite.

Mmm, yogurt.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N – So the idea for this popped into my head while watching Burn Notice. I immediately turned to my husband and said, remember that Pete Davidson set about what would you suck a dick for? Michael Westen’s is getting his burn notice revoked. And my husband was like, you’re right! So I wrote it. If you want to see the Pete Davidson set where he makes this joke, you can check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWU62spS_TI


End file.
